


Cause of Death

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Sometimes living with Holmes was more dangerous than helping with cases.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Indirect sequel to To Rest, Perchance to Breathe. Fulfills Whumptober 13 & 22  
> 13\. Breathe in, breathe out  
> 22\. Drugged

I trudged up the sidewalk, too tired to keep my normal vigilance walking the London streets. I could not even remember the last time I had eaten. The influenza outbreak in the poorer sections of the city was only getting worse, and I could not always set my bag in its place before someone else knocked on our door.

More often than I cared to remember, the family had waited too long to get help, and the patient was too far gone. The weight of losing so many patients nearly outweighed the fatigue of less than ten hours of sleep in the last week.

A familiar door loomed out of the early morning crowds, and I breathed a sigh of relief as it closed behind me. My rounds would not give me time to sleep, but perhaps I would be able to eat before someone else pounded on our door.

Holmes wandered out of his room as I entered the sitting room, the notebook in his hand revealing that he had decided to inventory the chemistry supplies he kept in his wardrobe, and I quickly smothered a smirk. He had obviously not stopped even to eat, and a smattering of crumbs from the toast he frequently called breakfast still stuck to the back of his trouser leg. I found their presence far too amusing to point them out, and I turned toward the table, filling a plate with some cold meats and cheese to eat while I restocked my medical bag.

“What is it, Holmes?” I finally asked when he continued studying me from the doorway. Two pots of tea rested on the tray nearby, and I poured myself a cup out of the warmer one. Coffee would be better, but I would take what I could get.

“You need to sleep.”

“I tend to agree,” I answered wryly. “What are the chances of no one pounding down our door tonight?”

He scowled at me. “Why wait for tonight?”

“You know the answer to that question,” I said as I eyed the tea in my cup. Something about it seemed…off. “I have rounds to do this morning.”

He made no answer, and I took a cautious sip of the tea, spitting it out immediately as the scent registered. “Holmes? How easily can you identify carrots in a dish?”

He frowned, perhaps wondering if I had truly seen through his attempt that quickly.

“I told you I hate chamomile,” I said, amusement coursing through me that he had tried to dose me after I had clearly told him how much I despised chamomile—and so soon after I had told him about the tea. We were barely three months past his failed experiment. “You will never be able to slip such a disgusting herb past me.” And since I was allergic to the medical sedative, he would not try chloral hydrate.

He continued frowning but said nothing, and I chuckled as I poured myself a cup of tea from the other pot, a cautious sip revealing no trace of that dreadful herb. The tea had turned slightly bitter after sitting out for so long, however, and I stirred in a spoonful of sugar before downing about half of it. Refilling the cup, I took it and my plate to my desk, where I quickly ate as I restocked my bag from the supplies I had left in one of the drawers a few days before. I would need to leave again in a few minutes.

Holmes continued staring at me from the doorway, and I quickly tired of the attention.

“What is it, Holmes? You cannot seriously think you would have been able to dose me with chamomile?”

His frown deepened, his thoughts racing behind that grey gaze, and I frowned as I swallowed another bite and reached for my tea. “Holmes?”

“No!”

Horror crossed his face as his gaze fixed on my cup, and the notebook hit the floor as he nearly leaped across the room, wrenching the cup from my grasp before I could take another drink.

“How much did you drink?” he demanded, setting the nearly full cup well out of reach on the end table. He glanced back toward me as he inspected both pots.

“About half a cup. What is it, Holmes? What is going on?”

“I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up tea and hot water,” he answered quietly. “She would not have added chamomile, and I did not.”

The realization washed over me. “Your case,” I said quietly. “Did you have a client in here?”

He shook his head, cautiously sniffing both pots before glancing back at me. “Did either of them taste strangely?”

I thought for a moment. “The chamomile tea is strong, but the other was fine. Perhaps a bit bitter from sitting out for so long.”

“Bitter,” he repeated, staring at me intently. “How bitter?”

“What does that—?” A recent patient came to mind, one that had been complaining of insomnia. I had recommended a half-dose of chloral hydrate to help her sleep, and she had complained about how bitter the stuff was. “Oh.”

“Watson?”

“Chloral hydrate is bitter, isn’t it?” I asked quietly. The one time I had taken chloral hydrate had been when Holmes had used it to dose me into getting some sleep—also during an influenza outbreak. I could not remember the sedative’s taste, but the way he was staring at me now said I probably would have recognized the tea if I did. Chloral hydrate took anywhere from five to thirty minutes to take effect, and the plate of food I had eaten would slow it down only slightly. If someone had dosed the tea, the allergy symptoms would show any minute.

“It is,” he affirmed, still staring at me, and I fought to hide the traces of fear trying to take hold. Allergic reactions often got worse with every exposure, and the last one had knocked me out for an entire day. Holmes’ appearance when I woke had clearly announced the worry that had been plaguing him, but he had refused to tell me later just how bad it had been, and I had only asked once.

I was not sure I wanted to know.

“Watson?” he said again when I made no reply.

I turned, grabbing my appointment book from my bag and quickly scribbling a note on a scrap of paper I found nearby.

“My current appointments start on page thirty,” I told him as I wrote. “Miss Legrange is in the most danger, and Thompson will need to see to her first. He is young, but his father trained him well. He should be able to handle influenza patients.”

“Watson—”

My chest began tightening, and I recognized the initial sign of a severe reaction, confirming the tea had been drugged. I could not wait for him to finish.

“Thompson’s new practice is four blocks north and west of here,” I continued as I set the note aside. “His rooms are around back.”

“Watson—” he tried again.

Feathers seemed to crawl up my windpipe, and I spoke over him again. Once a reaction began, it moved quickly. I had only moments, and he needed to know this before I lost the ability to speak.

“Agar knows about allergies,” I forced out, trying not to cough. I could not seem to get a full breath, and a strange whistling suddenly filled the room. “There’s a new drug, called—”

The words cut off as the room suddenly rotated around me. I had moved my desk chair while I restocked my bag and not thought to replace it when Holmes realized what was in the tea, but it was too far away to reach now. I used the desk to stay upright.

Holmes seemed to materialize next to me, steadying me with a hand on my arm as he tried to help me towards the settee, but I ignored him, fighting to voice the last word. I did not keep adrenaline in my bag, and Agar was the only one I knew that stocked it. He did not always carry it, however. Holmes needed to know what to tell him.

The word refused to come, and a strange heaviness weighed me down, making it difficult to keep my feet, even to breathe.

Holmes said something, his grip on my arm tightening though I could not make out his words. I needed to sit before I fell, but I would never be able to reach the chair even with his help. I briefly thought about trying to sit on the floor—anything was better than falling—but I had no chance to try before my grip on the desk failed.

Holmes caught me as the room spun yet again, and I barely registered his increasingly frantic calls before darkness crashed over me.


	2. Chapter 2

“Agar knows about allergies,” Watson barely managed to voice, his breathing growing more labored by the moment, and Holmes moved closer. “There’s a new drug, called—”

He cut himself off, leaning against the desk as he wheezed a breath, and the color drained from his face. Holmes wrapped a hand around his arm, trying to help him sit in the desk chair a few feet away, but Watson ignored the help, still leaning heavily on the desk despite Holmes’ grip on his arm.

“Sit before you fall, Watson,” he nearly snapped. “What is the name of the drug?”

Watson’s mouth moved, but he made no answer, and Holmes tried to hide the worry consuming him. This was progressing differently than the last one had, and Watson’s hand came up to grip his throat as a line from that textbook so many years ago rang through Holmes’ mind.

_Some patients develop extreme breathing issues, which are the most common, but not the only observed, cause of death._

“Watson. Watson, answer me!”

There was no answer, and a rash started forming around Watson’s mouth.

“Watson!”

His friend’s breathing grew more labored, and Watson lost his grip on the desk to sag against Holmes, gasping for air.

“WATSON!”

The doctor’s eyes fluttered closed, and Holmes caught him as Watson’s knees buckled. Stumbling under his friend’s limp weight, he staggered toward the settee as Watson’s breathing settled into a worryingly labored wheeze.

Watson had not closed the sitting room door when he entered, and Mrs. Hudson’s hurried steps sounded on the stairs. Holmes barely glanced over as he bellowed loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Send for Agar, Mrs. Hudson! Allergic reaction!”

Her footsteps hurried back down the stairs and out the front door, and Holmes eased Watson down onto the settee, propping him up in the hopes it would help his breathing.

Watson’s breathing remained a whistling wheeze, however, and Holmes started digging through his friend’s desk. Watson had just recently bought another medical textbook. Perhaps it would list the drug Watson had tried to mention as well as a dosage.

Familiar footsteps hurried up the stairs as he located the book in the bottom drawer, and he glanced up as Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.

“What happened and what can I do?” she asked quickly, casting a troubled glance at where Watson lay on the settee, each wheezing breath audible from across the room.

“Did you let anyone in this afternoon?” he asked, rapidly skimming the index before flipping pages.

She shook her head. “A man called for you just after you left. I offered to let him wait, but he declined.”

He glanced up, still flipping pages. “Shorter than Lestrade, dark hair with specks of grey, slightly overweight, but with a thinner face?”

She nodded. “What happened?”

He waved her off, barely refraining from releasing the word that came to mind as he flipped back to the index, then hunted for a new page. “Later. Send for Lestrade. Tell him I expect a break-in within two hours and ask him and one other to come immediately, then take the note and Watson’s appointment book to Doctor Thompson—you know where his office is?” She nodded. “Give the others the day off and go to your sister’s.”

“Let me stay.”

He shook his head, flipping back to the index once more before searching for a new page. “This man is a murderer. He will empty the house from the bottom up, and I expect him to enter through the kitchen. Go to your sister’s. Lestrade and I will take care of Watson, and I will send for you when it is safe to return.”

Finally finding the page he needed, he barely noticed her take the book and Watson’s note as he skimmed the text.

“In the event of severe breathing problems, a dose of adrenaline may be effective in restoring normal rhythm. Typical doses are as follows…”

Quickly noting the dose Watson would need, he started digging through the medical bag, desperately hoping Watson carried adrenaline. Though he was grateful the reaction was not progressing quite as quickly as it had hit, his friend’s breathing was only getting worse, and he had no way of knowing when Agar would arrive.

His first search revealed nothing, and he started taking everything out, one bottle, one vial, one syringe at a time, checking everything for the one he needed. Did Watson not carry adrenaline in his bag?

Apparently not. Holmes emptied the bag without finding adrenaline, and he stared at the supplies spread over the table before sinking into his chair next to the settee. Out of all those supplies, Watson did not have the one he needed, and Holmes could not leave him to check the pharmacy without risking Morgan breaking in to finish what he had started.

That had been the only thing that made sense, and Mrs. Hudson’s words had confirmed it. Morgan was a ruthless murderer who had been killing people across the city—primarily the upper class, as he helped himself to their things after they breathed their last. Holmes had suspected Morgan drugged his targets before returning to finish them off, but Morgan had been careful to clear any trace of evidence from the scene well before Holmes got there. Holmes had had little more than speculation before Watson had commented on chamomile in the hot water, and even then, it had taken far too long for Holmes to realize that chamomile in the water meant chloral hydrate was probably in the tea.

It was a mark of his own lack of sleep in the last week that Watson had drank even half a cup of the tainted tea, and Holmes berated himself for not realizing that Morgan had decided to add 221 Baker Street to his list of targets. Morgan would begin watching the flat soon, and he would wait until the drug had taken effect and all was quiet before entering via the kitchen to finish the job. He would not have wanted either of them to die from the sedative—Morgan was sinister enough to enjoy watching the light leaving his target’s eyes—but that did not change the fact that Watson’s labored breathing was only growing shallower.

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, tabbing Watson’s pulse but unable to help as his friend’s breathing slowly but steadily grew worse. He would far rather be moving, doing, searching for a way to fix this, but all he could do was wait—and hope that Agar would have the medication Watson needed. The seconds seemed to drag, each elongating to several times longer than they should last as he counted wheezing breaths and tabbed the pulse that was growing increasingly erratic.

_Where_ was Agar?

The door below slammed open, and three pairs of feet hurried up the steps.

“Agar?” he called, crossing the room in four quick strides to peer over the banister. Doctor Agar hurried up the stairs, Lestrade and Bennet behind him, and Agar began skipping every other stair as he registered the labored breathing coming from the sitting room.

“Morgan tried to sedate me,” Holmes said quickly as Agar reached the landing, “and Watson is allergic to chloral hydrate. Do you carry adrenaline?”

“Yes, and he knows it,” Agar said shortly, brushing past Holmes to reach the settee.

Ignoring the Yarders for the moment, Holmes followed Agar back to Watson’s side, worriedly watching as Agar checked Watson’s pulse and listened to his lungs for only a moment before digging a vial out of his bag.

“Is this the first time he has had this reaction?” Agar asked as he smoothly injected the medication into Watson’s leg.

Holmes shook his head. “This is the first one this bad, but he reacted to it once before, over ten years ago. A three-hour dose kept him asleep for nearly twenty-four hours and lethargic for another day. His breathing was slow and heavy the first day, and a rash spread over his face and neck, but he did not wheeze.”

Agar made no answer for a long moment, listening to Watson’s heartbeat with a frown on his face. “He needs to carry adrenaline with him,” he finally said quietly. “Reactions get worse with repeated exposure.”

_Another exposure could kill him._

Holmes swallowed hard, fighting not to show the fear those words had sparked. “Understood.”

Abrupt silence answered him, and Holmes spun to look at the settee, breathing a sigh of relief as Watson’s chest rose and fell with ease. Each breath was shallow and slightly too heavy, but at least the wheezing had stopped. A small amount of color returned to Watson’s face.

“The adrenaline reverses the worst of the symptoms,” Agar said as he checked Watson once more before putting the stethoscope back in his bag, “but it sounds like he is both sensitive to the drug and allergic to it. The adrenaline only addresses the allergy. If he does not wake by morning or if anything changes, send for me.”

Holmes nodded, seeing Agar to the landing before turning to check on Watson once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes relaxed into his chair, chin to his chest and eyes barely cracked though one hand monitored Watson’s pulse. An empty teacup lay on the floor next to the settee, while a half-empty one sat on the table next to Holmes, and he deepened his breathing as footsteps sounded downstairs.

If they had truly succumbed to chloral hydrate, he would hardly be tabbing Watson’s pulse, but Watson’s heavy breathing was nearly silent, and Holmes could not be sure all was well unless he either monitored Watson’s pulse or watched his breathing. He would have preferred to do both, but he had to feign sleep to set the trap. He could only hope Morgan did not notice his grip on Watson’s wrist.

The footsteps slowly moved through the kitchen, checking every room on their way toward the stairs, and Holmes faintly heard the drapes rustle behind him. Lestrade had simply readjusted, but Holmes’ breath caught in his throat as the footsteps downstairs froze.

They continued after a moment, and Holmes settled deeper into his chair, beginning to build the malingering that would draw Morgan close enough to trap. Lestrade and Bennet knew not to believe any symptoms Holmes displayed while Morgan was in range, and he purposely started wheezing as the footsteps reached the stairs.

Morgan picked up his pace at the sound, and Bennet tensed in his place beneath Watson’s desk.

Holmes’ breathing grew louder, and a faint chuckle came from near the door.

“What’s this?” Morgan asked in a distinctly American accent. “My work is almost done for me. What did you do to yourself, Holmes?”

Morgan slowly walked toward the settee, beginning to mumble as the club in his hand fell to hang at his side.

“Wheezing, breathing heavily. One of them is pale. Did they even drink the tea?” He inspected the cups. “Yes, that’s the tea. Seems they didn’t care for the chamomile. Pity. But what’s wrong with their breathing? None of the others did that.” He fell silent, apparently looking around the room. “Well, now, what’s this? The other’s a doctor? I haven’t had a doctor yet. Lawyer and police, yes, but no doctors. Why are all the supplies spread out?”

Morgan walked to stand near Watson’s desk, where Holmes had left the contents of Watson’s medical bag strewn about as well as the textbook lying open to the page on allergic reactions. Silence fell for a long moment as he read, apparently in no hurry to do what he had come to achieve.

After all, if they were truly under the effects of chloral hydrate, Morgan would have several hours before either of them woke on their own.

“Allergic reaction, eh? Well, that takes all the fun out of it. I suppose I won’t be able to wake them?”

Morgan turned toward where Watson lay on the settee, readying his club as he stepped closer, and Holmes took one more loud breath, made it hitch, let part of it out, and held it.

“Hey, now. None of that!” Morgan turned away from Watson toward where Holmes had slouched in his armchair, raising the club to knock Holmes to the ground. Perhaps he hoped to both restart Holmes’ breathing and wake him up all at once. Everything Holmes had found on Morgan had indicated that he preferred watching his victim die at his hands, but he was too cowardly to want a true fight. He drugged his victims instead, waking them one at a time and using the half-asleep stupor to keep them from fighting back.

Morgan wanted a stupefied detective to pummel to death, but he got a furious detective instead. Holmes waited for Morgan to commit to the swing before lunging out of his chair.

A strange form of satisfaction shot through him as Morgan’s eyes widened, but there was little time to enjoy it. Morgan might have been too cowardly to allow a true fight, but he was also too weak to win one. Holmes had him pinned well before Lestrade and Bennet reached them.

Holding the man down only long enough to be sure the cuffs were on and Bennet had a firm grip, Holmes turned back toward the settee, completely ignoring Morgan’s staring as he checked that nothing had changed with Watson.

“So the allergic reaction was a lot of rot, I suppose?” Morgan finally asked.

“How else to get you within reach?” Holmes answered, not even bothering to glance at where Morgan weakly fought Bennet’s forcing him to stand. Morgan did not need to know that the problem had been only half-faked, and fury coursed through him that Morgan had put Watson in danger. It took every ounce of control to continue checking Watson instead of throttling the cowardly man. He knew more than one way to get revenge.

“I should thank you for targeting us,” he added casually, knowing just the comment that would rankle Morgan more than anything. “You might have walked free if you had not, and I am sure the families of the others you have killed will be glad to know you are behind bars.”

Morgan swore, and Holmes noticed Lestrade trying to hide a grin. Accurate or not, Holmes’ revenge had flown true, and the inspector knew just as well as Holmes that the very idea would irritate Morgan to no end.

With a gesture to indicate that he would check on them later, Lestrade took Morgan’s other arm as Morgan colored the air all the way out the door, and with Watson appearing stable, Holmes stood to see the Yarders out. Rustling sounded from the settee as he gained his feet, however, and he quickly turned at the sound, kneeling as he desperately hoped Watson was waking.

Watson stirred, then opened his eyes, the heavy, labored breathing easing marginally as he did so, and Holmes leaned forward to take Watson’s hand in his own.

“Watson?”

There was no answer, and Watson’s gaze flit blankly around the room.

“Watson, can you hear me?”

Watson cut his gaze towards Holmes’ voice, but his eyes never focused. His mouth moved without sound, and the confusion on his face showed he was not truly awake. Holmes swallowed, remembering the many times Watson had awoken confused the last time this had happened.

“It is alright, Watson. You are safe.”

Awake or not, Watson evidently registered something in Holmes’ words. He stared through Holmes for only a moment longer before his eyes drifted shut again.

This was going to be a long day.


	4. Chapter 4

“Watson, can you hear me?”

_What a strange question. Yes. I can hear you._

“You need to wake up.”

 _Tired_.

“I know you are tired, but you have slept far too long.”

Sleep beckoned, drawing me nearer despite the words trying to rouse me further.

_There’s nothing wrong with sleep._

“Come, Watson. I will have to send for Agar soon if you do not wake.”

_No need to do that. Just let me sleep._

A strange pounding resounded in my head, as if a musician had put a set of drums between my ears. It confused me, but I brushed the thought away. I would figure out from where the drums had come later. Surely, it could wait. Sleep was more important, wasn’t it?

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

Something in the voice suggested I should listen, that I should fight until I opened my eyes—at least for a moment—but I was far too tired. Every muscle felt weighted down by a piano, and I doubted I could open my eyes even if I tried.

I did not try, and fatigue pulled me back into darkness.

* * *

Watson’s breathing deepened back into the heaviness of sleep, and Holmes leaned back in his chair. Twice now, Watson had roused enough for his breathing to change, but he had yet to move, not even twitching as he always did even when deeply asleep.

Holmes stood and stretched, glancing out the window as he did so. Early morning sunlight lit the buildings across the street, and the typical crowds flowed up and down the sidewalks, spilling into the street to run in front of the cabbies rushing from one end of town to the other.

Mrs. Hudson had brought up a fresh pot of tea an hour before, and he poured himself a cup, nearly spilling as his attention remained more on Watson than the cup in his hand.

Over twenty-four hours had passed since Watson collapsed, and while the slow, heavy breathing was far better than the shallow wheeze of yesterday, Watson needed to wake up.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson carried a late breakfast into the room. She glanced at Watson on her way to the table, needing no words to see that there had been no change, and Holmes sat heavily back in his chair, head resting in his palm as he stared at Watson.

Waiting was always harder than doing.

“Eat something, Mr. Holmes.”

He made no answer, barely registering her words. He did not need to eat. Watson needed to wake up.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He tabbed Watson’s pulse, relieved that it was still strong and steady, if a bit too slow, but the heavy, nearly labored breaths never improved. Would Watson ever wake?

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he smothered a start, glancing up to find Mrs. Hudson standing behind him with sympathy on her face. She was just as worried as he.

“You promised him you would not skip meals,” she reminded him gently, “and you know what he will do if you break that promise here. Eat something. Anything.”

He stared at her for a moment but finally nodded, pulling himself to his feet, and he felt her gaze follow him. She turned to leave when he grabbed a plate, but he spoke before she reached the door.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She glanced back.

“Send for Agar,” he continued quietly, unable to hide both fatigue and worry so concealing the worry. “Watson should have woken by now.”

Concern shone clearly on her face as she left, but he made no comment. How could he when his own worry was just as strong?

Taking the plate of simple foods back to his chair, his gaze never left his friend as he sampled more than ate any of the food on his plate. A few bites were more than enough to fulfill his promise, and silence fell over the sitting room as Holmes counted breaths.

Watson needed to wake up.

The door below opened, then shut, and Agar’s steps sounded on the stairs. Holmes ignored the other man’s entrance, busy tabbing Watson’s pulse with one hand while timing breaths with the other.

“Has there been any change?” Agar asked in lieu of greeting when Holmes finally glanced up, removing the stethoscope from the bag he had sat on the floor.

Holmes shook his head, moving only far enough to be out of Agar’s way as he watched the evaluation. “Very little. He roused enough for his breathing to change twice, but he has not moved in—” he broke off, glancing at the clock before he finished, “six hours, when he last woke confused.”

“Describe ‘waking confused.’”

Holmes hesitated as Agar listened to Watson’s breathing, then answered, “His eyes open but never focus. Sometimes he fights me, thinking that one or both of us have been attacked, and other times he asks who I am and where he is several times before going back to sleep. Three times, he sipped some water, but he was not aware, merely non combative.”

Agar did not answer for a moment. “Do we know how much Morgan put in the tea?”

Holmes opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. “He used the standard eight-hour dose on his other victims,” he finally answered, “but Watson only had a half a cup. Perhaps a five-hour dose.”

“And he slept close to twenty-four hours for a three-hour dose,” Agar replied. “How much sleep did he get in the last week?”

Holmes shook his head. “Very little. He often could not even sit down before someone else came to the door. Mrs. Hudson has turned away seven people just this morning.”

Agar closed his bag and stood to look at Holmes. “I can find nothing wrong. His breathing is not as labored as it was yesterday, and he seems to be closer to deeply asleep than unconscious from the drug. He should wake on his own. It is simply a matter of when.”

Holmes frowned, but Watson’s breathing changed again before he could reply. He moved to stand beside the settee.

“Watson?”

His friend remained still.

“Watson can you hear me?”

There was no response, and Watson returned to sleep a moment later.

“You said he has done that twice?” Agar asked, studying Watson.

“This is the third time, yes.” Holmes seated himself in his armchair, tabbing Watson’s pulse though his gaze never left Agar. “I called you shortly after the second, and the first was around three hours ago. Why? What is wrong?”

Agar quickly shook his head, the faint smile reassuring Holmes more than the following words. “Nothing is wrong. He appears to be trying to wake but can’t quite manage it yet. Chloral hydrate works on the nervous system. He is sensitive enough to the drug he will probably be lethargic even long after he finally wakes, and that lethargy is keeping him asleep for now.”

Some of Holmes’ worry eased, relieved by Agar’s obvious lack of concern, and Agar turned to leave.

“I can see myself out,” he said as Holmes made to stand. “I am helping Thompson today. Send for me there if something changes, but I believe he will wake soon.”

The door closed before Holmes could thank him, and Holmes settled into his armchair, watching. Waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

“Watson, can you hear me?”

_Yes, I can hear you._

“You need to wake up.”

_Haven’t we discussed this already?_

A hand grabbed mine, lifting to hold my forearm upright, and I wondered how they could so easily lift the arm that seemed to weigh so much. Everything felt heavy, and the fatigue overwhelmed me.

“Open your—”

The voice might have continued, but sleep beckoned, and I did not fight it.

“Watson, can you hear me?”

The voice penetrated the darkness yet again, and faint irritation shot through me.

_Can you say anything else?_

“You need to wake up.”

_We’ve been over this_.

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

I considered fighting to stay awake, but I tired of the repeated conversations. Fatigue pulled at me, and I let it.

“Watson?”

_What do you want?_

“You need to wake up.”

_Who are you, and why do I get the impression that you hate repeating yourself?_

“Agar said that he believes you are conscious but unable to respond. I hope he is right, if only because that means you are growing closer to being _able_ to respond. Open your eyes, Watson. You have slept long enough.”

_Yet I am still exhausted. How could I have slept long enough when fatigue still pulls at me?_

“At least wake up enough to sip some water. You have not moved in far too long.”

_I would hurt if that were the case, but everything just feels heavy. Why should I wake up when I apparently need the sleep?_

“You need to wake up.”

_And here we go again._

There was a long pause. “ _Can_ you hear me?” the voice finally asked, worry beginning to leak into the words.

A hand grabbed mine, gently squeezing it, and I tried to squeeze back. My eyes refused to open, and I did not understand why they thought I needed to wake up, but something told me that the voice should not carry such worry. I would ease it if I could.

My hand remained limp, however, and even the effort tired me. The voice started to say something else, but I did not hear it as fatigue took over.

“Watson?”

_You again?_

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

_You are doggedly persistent._

“You have slept long enough. Open your eyes, even for a moment.”

_Already tried that. Didn’t work._

“Keep trying. You need to wake up.”

_Are you a mind reader?_

The voice paused, sighing faintly.

“Lestrade was here earlier,” it continued after a moment. “He said Morgan’s language only got more colorful as he saw his cell. There is apparently a distinct difference between American jails and British.”

_Who is Morgan? And while we’re on the topic of names, who are you?_

“You were not awake for that part, Watson, but I cannot deny that I enjoyed Lestrade’s account. Morgan spends most of his time pacing the cell, fuming that he would have gone free if he had left town instead of targeting us. They booked him on ten counts of murder and two attempted murder. His trial is next week, but Lestrade has no doubt that Morgan will swing for it.”

While the voice sounded vaguely familiar, I still had no idea who this Morgan chap was, but I noted the information and filed it away. If someone was taking the time to tell me this when they doubted I was even awake, it must be important. I would figure it out later.

“I finally discovered why you smirked at me when you got home, Watson. Even Lestrade did not comment on the toast crumbs scattered over my trouser leg, though I am sure that particular tale has already rounded the Yard two or three times. Do tell me next time, will you?”

I finally recognized the voice as Holmes’, and amusement shot through me as the memory bloomed. I had wondered how long it would take him to notice it, but why was he talking to me while I slept?

The thought struck me. A better question would be, why had I been asleep? We were in the middle of an influenza outbreak. Surely, I would have patients?

“Thompson sent an update on your patients when he returned your appointment book. That young lady you mentioned—Legrange?—recovered.”

Legrange? I thought for a moment, vaguely recognizing the name. Who was Legrange?

A memory came of a young woman, her husband at her side and three little ones peering from the doorway. She had been dreadfully ill, last I had seen her, and I was glad to know she had recovered.

That still did not answer why _I_ had not been caring for her, however.

“I think you scared Mrs. Hudson. I do not believe she has stopped cooking since she got home. You need to wake up and help me eat all this food.”

Since she got home? Where had she gone? And how had I scared her?

“Agar says you need to carry adrenaline with you from now on. You cut this one rather fine.”

Adrenaline. Adrenaline was used for allergic reactions, and I knew of only one allergy: chloral hydrate. Finally, memory sparked, recalling chamomile next to a doctored tea. Sleep pulled at me again, but this time I fought it, trying to open my eyes.

How bad had the reaction been, for Mrs. Hudson to start cooking obsessively and Agar to think I should carry adrenaline with me?

“You should probably teach others around you how to dose you as well,” Holmes continued, taking my hand in his. “If you cannot inject yourself, someone else needs to know how much constitutes a dose and where to inject it.”

That answered my question rather…succinctly, and I stopped fighting to open my eyes for a moment, absorbing that. Allergic reactions got worse with every exposure, I knew, but my first one had not required adrenaline to survive—a good thing, since adrenaline was an extremely recent discovery.

Apparently, this one _had_ required adrenaline, and that explained quite a few of my other questions as well, though not why I was having such a hard time waking up.

I decided that was probably due to the chloral hydrate. The drug targeted the nervous system, and that would explain why everything felt heavy, as if the medicine was still trying to put me to sleep. It had knocked me out for an entire day last time, but this had probably been a larger dose. Holmes’ nearly rambling words served as further proof that I had not been aware in quite some time. How long had I been asleep?

The easiest way to determine that was to ask him, and I tried again to open my eyes, twitch a finger, somehow convey to Holmes that I was awake.

Silence reigned for a long moment before a sigh reached my ears.

“Are you ever going to wake for real?” he breathed, cupping my hand in both of his own.

Sympathy lurched in my chest as fatigue, worry, fear, impatience, and many others pushed themselves into the question in a way Holmes would never have allowed were he aware that I was conscious. However long it had been, it was long enough that Holmes was beginning to wonder _if_ I would wake up instead of _when_ , and I renewed my efforts, fighting to move, groan, _anything_.

I was just beginning to think I could twitch my hand against his when a cry sounded from the rooms below, followed by a clatter and an abrupt _whoosh!_

Holmes lunged to his feet, dropping my hand and bolting for the stairs, and I knew he had recognized the sound just as well as I had. I had done something similar once, years ago.

Few kitchen accidents were more easily recognizable than the explosion of flames produced when a cloud of flour hit a spark.


	6. Chapter 6

My eyes finally obeyed my commands to open, and I stared at the ceiling, listening closely as I tried to overcome the lethargy holding me down. Mrs. Hudson could be injured, and while I doubted I would be able to help if she was, there was also a chance that the cloud of flames had reached something else flammable. We would need to evacuate if that were the case, and I had no wish to be helpless in a house fire.

Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried from the kitchen before Holmes’ hurried steps made it down the stairs, however, and relief coursed through me at the lack of panic in her tone. He continued further into her rooms, double checking that she needed no help, but I could clearly hear her telling him to “get back upstairs, Mr. Holmes. I’m fine.” He would be back up shortly.

The more I woke, the easier it became to ignore how tired I was—at least for the moment—and I managed to readjust on the settee, laying more on my side to silence the twinge in my shoulder as I looked around the room.

Holmes’ armchair had been pulled to sit next to the settee, and one of the end tables now rested within reach of his chair. Afternoon sunlight shone brightly through the window, explaining why the fire had been allowed to die to a pile of coals, and a stack of mail rested on Holmes’ chemistry table. A book on the end table sat next to a pot of tea, a half-eaten plate of food, and a pitcher and half-full glass of water, but I could find no hints as to how long it had been. I had arrived home an hour or two after breakfast. How long had I been asleep?

Pain intruded on my thoughts, and the question fell to the side as I flinched, finally noticing the headache pounding a counter rhythm to my pulse. A pain reliever would be welcome, while Holmes was out of the room, but while the glass of water might be within reach, the contents of my bag were most definitely not, spread over my desk as they were. The pain reliever would have to wait, but if Holmes did not come back soon, I would at least try to reach the glass of water. My throat was dry enough to imitate a desert.

What was taking him so long? Was Mrs. Hudson injured after all? Had something caught fire?

The smell of burnt flour drifted into the room, and I tried to push myself upright to look towards the stairs. Holmes had not closed the door on his way to the kitchen, and a glance at the landing would tell me if there was a problem. Considering the heavy fatigue still weighing me down, I had no idea how I would pull myself off the settee, much less get down the stairs, but I would figure out something.

I finally pushed myself upright just long enough to glimpse the landing, and I saw no sign of smoke, which was good, because I obviously was not yet ready to get up. The brief moment I sat up far enough to peer over the back of the settee set my head to spinning, and I slumped back down into the cushions as the room seemed to rotate around me.

I opened my eyes without remembering closing them, gingerly readjusting on the settee as the vertigo calmed. Shoving a pillow to where it would support my shoulder, I tried to get comfortable, eyeing the glass on the table. If I could not even sit up enough to glance toward the landing without growing dizzy, would I be able to get a drink without help? I glanced around the room again as I thought about it, trying to decide if I wanted to try or simply go back to sleep. I still could not hear him on the stairs.

An attempt to swallow nearly set me to coughing as my throat seemed to close in on itself, and I glanced back at the glass enticing me from the table. My throat was already horribly dry. How much worse would it get if I went back to sleep now? I was tired enough to sleep for several hours before waking again.

Silence still reigned on the stairs. He had probably started helping her clean, I decided, and it could be several minutes before he came back up. I had obviously been asleep for quite a while, for my throat to be dry instead of just my mouth, and I needed a drink before I gave into the fatigue trying to pull me back to sleep. I would have to try, and I readjusted again, both propping myself up a little more and reaching for the glass.

I reached the glass easily, but it was heavier than I expected, and I pushed myself a little closer. How could a half-full glass be so heavy?

I had no idea, but I probably should not have tried to lift it after the first attempt failed. The outside of the glass was wet, and my hand slipped. The glass landed back on the table with a loud _thump_ , and I lost my balance, knocking the book to the floor when I tried to prevent myself from slipping off the settee. Footsteps bolted back up the stairs they had run down only a few minutes before as the room performed another rotation.

“Watson?”

The voice roused me, and I fought to open my eyes. I lay halfway over the edge of the cushion, a familiar pair of hands preventing me from slipping to the floor, and if the vertigo still tilting the room was any indication, that had been a foolish thing to try. I wondered how much of the attempt Holmes had deduced when he entered the room.

“Watson, can you hear me?”

_You are deucedly repetitive today, you know._

Gentle hands lifted me further onto the settee, and I finally managed to open one eye, then the other. Holmes leaned over me, relief flashing in his gaze as I focused on him.

He glanced between me, the book on the floor, and the glass I had moved about an inch, quickly realizing what I had tried to do. There was no need for me to ask—however silently—before he propped me up with one hand and held the glass so I could drink, staring at me all the while.

“Sorry,” I muttered once I could get my voice to work, taking the glass from him though I still needed the help to sit up. He had gone down to help Mrs. Hudson, and I had scared him by collapsing before he returned. I blamed the fatigue for why I had not thought that one through better. I should have simply knocked the book to the floor. That would have brought him up without making him find me collapsed half-off the settee.

He brushed the apology aside, still staring at me.

“Do you remember what happened?” he finally asked as I continued sipping.

I tried to nod and nearly spilled. “Drugged. How—” The word tried to break, and I swallowed before I tried again. “How long?”

“It is three hours after noon on the second day,” he answered.

Nearly thirty-six hours. No wonder Holmes had been so worried.

“Adrenaline?” How quickly had Agar decided to dose me? I could not yet form so many words, and I hoped he understood the question.

He nodded and took the glass from me to set aside as I relaxed back onto a pillow, fighting to pay attention through the pounding in my head.

“Agar had it with him,” he told me quietly, keen gaze studying me, “and he injected you within moments of reaching you. It helped your breathing, but you would not wake. He said you are both sensitive and allergic to the sedative, and the adrenaline only addresses the allergy.”

I nodded, forcing my eyes open once again. I had known that, but Holmes continued before I could form the next question, stumbling only slightly over the words though his reddening ears betrayed his discomfort.

“He also said you need to carry the adrenaline with you.”

I tried to hide my surprise. The comment provided yet another clue as to how bad the reaction had been, and I had not expected him to voice it right away—or at all. He would normally put it off until I had somewhat recovered if he could not let Agar tell me.

“I’ll teach both you and Mrs. Hudson the dosage,” I said after a moment.

He nodded, his grip on my hand saying more than his words ever would, and I tried again to pull myself upright in the hopes it would help me stay awake. I could not quite turn to lean against the back, however, and Holmes never loosened his grip as he placed a pillow where I could lean on it.

“Is Mrs. Hudson alright?” I asked when the room stopped its slow revolutions.

He stared at me in surprise. “How long were you awake?”

I thought for a moment, trying to figure time into my slow awakening, but finally gave up with a shrug. “I could hear you, but I don’t know for how long. I distinctly heard flour hit a spark, though. Was she injured?”

He mastered his surprise, answering quickly as my gaze drifted toward my medical bag. “No, she was not injured. She is downstairs cleaning up her ‘crispy kitchen.’”

I smirked, both at the phrase he quoted and glad I had not caused it this time, but moved to the next question.

“My patients?” Holmes had mentioned the worst of them, but what about the others?

“I sent your appointment book to Thompson, and he sent it back last night. All your patients are fine, as far as I know, and Legrange is fully recovered.”

“Good.” I paused, sure there had been at least one other question I wanted answered, but my stomach growled before I could recall it. I could ask it after I ate, and I let go of him to turn on the cushion, intending to push myself to my feet, however slowly.

Holmes’ hand landed heavily on my shoulder, holding me in place. I looked up at him with a frown.

“I can get it,” he told me. “Stay here.”

I huffed, feigning more irritation than I felt as I leaned back onto the pillow, but it did not surprise me. After finding me sliding towards the floor, he probably would not let me stand until tomorrow at the earliest. I hated being an invalid.

He quickly filled a plate, resuming his place in his chair to stare at me as I ate, and I tried to ignore it instead of snapping at him. He knew I hated the fuss that came with any sort of illness, but I could not deny I would be doing much the same thing were our positions reversed. I remembered pieces of the reaction this time, like how hard it had become to breathe before I finally lost my grip on the desk. If I had collapsed from lack of oxygen instead of from the sedative itself, how far had the reaction progressed before Agar had reversed it?

The gaze still resting intently on me said I probably did not want to know.

Just because I was hungry did not mean I was awake enough to eat, and I picked at the food more than truly ate, grateful he had dished simpler food. If I was too tired to eat pieces of bread, meat, and cheese, I certainly could not manage anything requiring utensils.

“Stop staring at me, Holmes,” I finally muttered, my gaze on the small piece of cheese my rather sluggish coordination was refusing to let me grab. “I know you remember how tired I was last time.”

“It did not last as long last time,” he answered, his gaze never leaving me, “and it appears worse.”

I gave up on the piece of cheese. “Larger dose?”

“Possibly,” he admitted. “How bad is the headache?”

Painful enough that it combined with the lethargy to make it a challenge to think, but I would not voice that.

“Annoying.” I wanted a pain reliever, and my gaze drifted toward the supplies spread over my desk. I covered it with a question, though I still could not remember the others I had wanted to ask earlier. “Why did you empty my bag?”

“Your textbook listed the dosages for adrenaline, and I did not know how long it would take Agar to arrive.”

I should have figured that out for myself, and I blamed both the headache and the fatigue for why I did not. His words reminded me of one of my other questions, however, and I could use that to move the conversation along. I set the plate aside and reached for the glass he had left on the end table. Most of my headache was probably dehydration.

“Where did Mrs. Hudson go?” The fatigue was trying to catch up with me, and I focused on not letting my words slur.

He frowned at me as renewed worry sparked faintly in his gaze. “When?”

I hesitated, chasing down the memory of his nearly rambling voice as I sipped the water. “Didn’t you say she started cooking after she ‘got home?’”

A grin twitched his mouth as he relaxed. “She went to her sister’s until the Yard took Morgan away.”

Morgan. There was my last question. Holmes said the name as if he expected me to follow him, and I hoped I had not lost the memory. “And Morgan is?”

I had braced myself for worry, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief when all I saw was realization. “Remember when Lestrade called me to Whitehall three weeks ago?”

I nodded. I had wanted to go with him, but an urgent call for help had come just before we left. Instead of going with him, I had gone to help the first of the influenza patients and not slowed down since—or so it felt, anyway.

“Three adults had been beaten to death, but there were no signs that they had fought back. The entire room had been meticulously cleaned of any clues as well as a few belongings. That was the second such murder, and there was one more last week. I knew the most likely culprit, but I had little more than speculation on how it was done until you commented on the chamomile.”

I frowned, fighting to make my sluggish thoughts catch up. What did chamomile have to do with several murders in the upper-class part of town?

“Morgan would break in and put a sedative in whatever was readily available,” he continued, “leave, then break in again to finish the job with no resistance after it had time to take effect.”

“He came here?” I hated how difficult it became to talk when I got tired. Holmes had pointed out that my accent changed each time, and I could hear it clearly as I fought to speak without slurring.

He nodded, frowning at me when I apparently failed to conceal a wince at the pain in my head.

“I stepped out to get a newspaper shortly before you got home,” he said instead of calling me on it, “and my bedroom window was unlatched. He would have had just enough time to taint the tea and put chamomile in the water before I returned.”

My sluggish thoughts finally caught up, and I realized he had probably used himself as bait to catch Morgan. I rested the glass on a cushion for a moment as I stared at him, searching for injury.

He read my thoughts easily. “You can stop scanning me, Watson. Lestrade and Bennet were here as well, though I only needed them to arrest him. Morgan could not fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”

That startled a laugh out of me, and a grin twitched his mouth at catching me off guard while my headache spiked at the movement. Smothering the resultant flinch, I wondered where he had picked up _that_ particular expression. That sounded more like something I would expect to find in a novel than a phrase Holmes would use to describe a murderer.

His initial pleasure at my laugh faded to a frown at the flinch I apparently failed to smother, and he pushed himself to his feet.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said as he walked toward my desk, working to make sure the words were clear though I could not quite remove the Scottish burr creeping through every vowel. “It’s just a headache. I’m probably dehydrated.”

He made no reply, quickly picking a familiar packet out of the clutter of supplies on my desk before returning to the settee. Topping off my glass of water, he stirred in the powder and handed the glass to me.

I scowled at him even as I took a large drink. I had not wanted him to know I wanted a pain reliever, and there were times I wished he were not so confounded observant. He merely smirked at my irritation, resuming his place in his armchair to study me. Something else was plaguing him.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

He shook his head, staring at me as I took another large drink.

“Holmes?”

Silence answered me again, and I rested the nearly empty glass on a cushion to stare at him in return, noting the faint worry lingering in his gaze.

“How tired are you?” he asked after a moment.

I took another drink as I decided how I wanted to answer that. Truthfully, I would not be able to stay awake for much longer, but I wanted to finish the glass and make sure both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were truly uninjured before I went back to sleep.

“Why?”

He hesitated, apparently trying to deduce the answer he sought instead of having to ask.

“Are you slurring your words because of the headache or the fatigue?”

What was it I had called him a moment ago? Confoundedly observant? Another, much stronger word came to mind, and based on the faint smile battling the worry for dominance, I had not silenced the muttered phrase as well as I had hoped to.

“The fatigue,” I answered.

“Then sleep.”

I finished the glass and set it aside, resisting the urge to close my eyes as I studied him. The unusual phrase he had used to describe Morgan could have been deflecting me from an injury, and I wanted to make sure he was truly alright before I succumbed to the heavy fatigue weighing me down.

“I am fine, Watson,” he told me, “and so is Mrs. Hudson. Sleep. Maybe she will tell us both how she managed to crisp her kitchen when you wake.”

I smirked, turning to rest my head against the pillow, and my eyes drifted closed without my consent as Holmes draped a blanket over me. I did not fall asleep immediately, and I faintly heard him mutter something to the effect of not understanding why she would make his favorite cake if she refused to let him have a piece.

Amusement coursed through me, though the lethargy stole the laugh that tried to bubble out at the familiar complaint. Mrs. Hudson would never let him even taste a dessert before she deemed it ready for him to have—and unless she had made it for him. Even clients knew about his sweet tooth, and Mrs. Hudson guarded her kitchen closely to keep him from stealing anything from ingredients to finished cakes and pies. He would be lucky to get even a taste of the batter if she had decided the cake was for someone else.

The footsteps on the stairs suggested he might be more than lucky, however. I would ask when I woke.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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